onbruisedknees

"Tell your story. Tell it on your bruised knees if you must, tell it at the risk of madness, scream it at the top of your lungs." –Andrew Lam

Category: dancing

Dance

Dance Quote @Crystal Chou Costello

via pinterest

This morning I had dance class. I take adult jazz and tap. I’m the youngest. The oldest ladies are late sixties or early seventies. Some of them can’t pivot-turn. Some can really cut a rug. I do not know these women well, but I adore them all. I love that we are women in every different stage of womanhood. I love that we warm up to songs by Jamie Grace and Toby Mac and Mandisa. “You’re an overcomer,” one song says. “I’m an overcomer,” I repeat to myself.  My dance teacher’s the type of person who radiates. I make myself go to dance class even when I feel dark.

I have not improved much in tap since I was a five-year-old in a bumblebee costume who ran off the stage because I forgot how to paradiddle and shuffle step, but I’m a decent jazz dancer. One of the jazz dance sequences today was clever—it involved some attitude and some groove and a hop. And it required a certain joy.  The movement felt good and spot-on, and so I laughed full and loud–a sound I hadn’t heard in a while, a sound my friend next to me said she loved to hear.

I felt high school dinner theater opening night-good. I felt closing ceremony of Dirty Dancing– good. I felt Susan Sarandon in Elizabethtown-good. Remember when she dances her beautiful tap dance routine during her husband’s memorial service? Remember her freely gliding across that stage? Her children don’t understand why she decided to take tap dance lessons so soon after their dad’s death, but she knew she needed to carpe diem. She allowed herself to feel good, to laugh, to dance in the middle of her grief. Through her grief. There’s a newly widowed lady in my dance class. She’s surely grieving, but she shows up every Tuesday.

She can’t pivot-turn.

I can’t tap dance.

I don’t know what I’m grieving, but I’m glad dance, movement, joy…..rescues us all.

A Thousand Daughters

Love woke me up this morning.

Love and puppies.

And knowing at work today new plants would be delivered. I could get my hands in potting soil and roots and bulbs. And knowing I might buy an African violet and eat a slice of carrot cake from Stella’s.

You must find things to look forward to, he says.

I’d paint jars sunshine yellow and make a wreath in the shape of a square. Because sometimes it’s fun to be a different shape than what others expect you to be. I’m not a circle, am I. No. I have a lot of angles. I might be an octagon-trapezoid-isosceles. Something irregular like that. (I was never any good at geometry).

Funny things happened this morning while getting ready.

The first funny thing is I actually got ready.

And the second funny thing?

The sun was shining. Full on shinin’ instead of doing its little peepshow tease. Full on shinin’ instead of acting drunk in the sky. So I actually washed my hair. Actually applied makeup. And I wrote…in my head. I never write in my head. I’m a walking ditzy dum-dum until I have paper in front of me.

And while I painted a pop of peony-pink on my lips, thoughts swirled like yesterday’s snow. Jumbled. But feels so good.

To think again.

To feel.

That movement.

You know?

I started thinking about flocks and shepherding

and the quote that says, “I’ll live as though I have a thousand daughters.”

Sons and daughters, I had. Had a door to stick post-it notes of encouragement. A whiteboard to write quotes and song lyrics. Stories to expand to life. Characters we turned into humans. Heart-to-hearts about parents and dreams and relationships and lust and love and struggle and God and hope and being who we really are. Café days where they found their voices. An avenue. A stage.

A whole big flock.

I was the young one. And so they followed me.

My heart’s kind of sticky that way.

So what’s a shepherdess to do?

I tried to find new sheep when we had to migrate.

But they weren’t mine.

They weren’t mine to tell them it’s possible to be in the world and still not of it. Not my place to give advice. To tell them what worth and holiness are most certainly not measured by.

To talk to them like young adults. Or say they should be in school. They should get to live–at least a little bit–the way they want to.

It’s not up to me. This is not the same place as there.

I don’t get to tell them what to see. I don’t even get to tell them the place to look and let them decide what they see.

So I had to back up. Back off. Back away, far away.

Then found myself in a season where my own heart had to be tended to.

In that place again–

Made to feel like my truth is just not a good example.

Not a lifesong.

Ugh, better to be fake. To be reserved. Not the wild-hearted you that danced with abandon.

Oh, but the gritty and the grace. Your own deep truth, daughters.

That’s the melody. Makes the song worth singing.

Tone down good passions? I can’t. I just find other ways. I’m sick of the way we give into the lies that we are too much. And not enough.

When love wakes me up in the morning, I want to…write. Write again.

And tell all the daughters.

I may never get to have a daughter of my own–though I have named her.

But I will write for my daughters. I will write as though

I have

a thousand daughters.

Item of Clothing Kept for the Memory

The dress bought on our first anniversary.

Patterns of white, brown, and tan.
The length of the floor.
 Fit the hips like second skin.
 Too sleek for any sort of garments
underneath.
 And I danced.
 The girl stops apologizing
 for the woman she is.
 For dancing the way she wants to.
For all that is natural.
 Free. Fierce. Feminine.
He peels off my tribal dress.
Fingers undone ringlets damp with sweat.
 Flings all of the heat and the rhythm
to the crisp-cool sheets
 of bed.

credit: via pinterest