I have observed that the “About” page of blogs and books of all kinds is where the author pours out his or her soul so that readers can gain a glimpse into the inner being behind the words. While helpful in some cases, an “About” page is not necessary for this blog. I bleed out my soul into my writing. Bleeding is writing. It is pouring out your very life’s source for no other purpose than just losing it and being confident that it will regenerate.
I am a writer.
I smiled when I wrote that last sentence, because it brings me such joy.
Please, when you read this, grab a cozy blanket and a steamy mug of tea that is still giving off ephemeral wisps of steam that are pirouetting through the air, because the writings are meant to be comforting. Reading is comforting. It is a hug of language.
I began authoring “It’s Hard to Dance” at one of the lowest parts of my life, a deep valley that I have trudged through in the middle of the night, broken hearted, and am finally peaking out over the apex of the mountain catching the sun’s first burst of rays across the sky with a bigger heart. And I can breathe again. The blog has changed since I first began writing and continues to do so. I have changed since I first began writing here and continue to do so. Where we both end up will be beautiful.
A lovely young woman once sang that it is hard to dance with the devil on your back. Without getting into a theological debate, one cannot debunk the fact that dancing when a grievous depression is hanging sullenly upon your shoulders is improbable if not impossible. There is a lack of beat, of motion, of sensuousness that fuels the art of dancing. When we are happy, we feel beautiful. When we feel beautiful, we dance. Unstoppable. Beaming. Glowing with such a ferocity that it becomes hard to ignore let alone join in the festivity.
It starts at our toes, deep down below any sort of consciousness, writhing its way through our legs, enticing a foot to tap. Meandering, it flows through our abdomen, squeezes our heart, releasing extra love that was once trapped between two lungs, until that smile melts across your face. You know when it happens. Perhaps you have felt it at prom, in your ballet studio, or, if you are like me, the best possible place to cut a rug: the kitchen.
While it may be hard to dance, there is the promise that to shake it out will always serve as the panacea to whatever is plaguing your spirit, whatever evil doer that is clinging to you, whatever is dulling your sparkle.
So, shake it out darling.