What Else Can I do But Dance?

Crying isn't enough sometimes. Grief of this depth requires creative outlets...and movement. Lots of movement. Movement of the physical body, in and around and through physical space. Pain like this begs to be made visible in some form - in this case, the form of my limbs in a stiff musical wind.

Mom didn't merely "love" to dance. It was a portal for her. A channel through which to breathe deeply, sweat out the intensity of her LOVE and RAGE...and BE, meaningfully. When I dance, I feel her in my feet. I feel her pushing my arms out and waving them about. I feel my face contorting and my eyes closing, and when my eyes are closed, I can see my own face, and it is hers.

The unbearable weight of the empty space where her body once moved - is like a straight jacket. But struggling in it, kicking and screaming and biting, won't remove the bondage it creates. Nothing will ever "remove" the pain of missing her. But dancing is somehow a better tool than anger. It is a stronger force. When I curse God through vengeful tears - running at the truth with a useless battering ram only to be knocked back, like a crying child fighting against bed time - the straps only grasp me more tightly, leaving my body immobile and exhausted. I hug myself violently with those arm restraints. But no matter how hard I try, with anger, I cannot get free.

So instead I do what mom would do. I dance. And when I dance, God knows and aknowledges my pain. He lifts me up and lets me mourn in his arms. For the end of her life, and the sadness so deep and rich in my broken heart. He rocks me gently and strokes my hair like she would've done. He tells me that it is okay to cry - for the end of the world, and the beauty so endlessly vast in the unbroken circle of eternity.

And my body moves about like a blowing storm, a seething wind. And tears fall as a hard, cleansing rain. And I feel the fact that HER LOVE made me. And I see what she saw when she danced. And I think to myself...When crying out in anger alone is not enough, how else am I to express my pain, to God or to myself, in a way that affirms its limitless power?

What else can I do? In these moments, it is dance...or die.

So I dance.