To follow up (for courage to face lobsters):
(I love that “love” + “body” = dance)
The act of dancing makes me feel connected to my human heritage. In this house, we are always dancing, which is perfect, and marvelous. We dance during the day, waking up, getting ready for the night (last night, we danced for courage to go face the lobsters). Earlier this week, Ryan and I danced to African drumbeats together. Miles and I dance whenever there’s music, and there’s always music.
And when I think of dancing, I don’t just think of these things, but also of the country dances Hardy described, and the tribal dances in Africa and the Americas, of the Irish who kept dancing even when it was outlawed, of all the times people have turned to dancing in sadness, and also in elation. I need to keep dancing.
This didn’t get finished, so now it’s only good for this:
When everything is quite thawed, and now warm enough that the scents of plants rise in the air, then comes expectation, floating joys that quiver only before reality. Then I can feel the shapes of old imaginings rise under my ribs–almost all spheres, expanding in all directions at once. The only thing that’s real is my blood, but the entire world lives behind my eyes, only nobler and more succinct.
So it’s April. And I just really can’t wait for May.
