Day Four

an examination of import

His presence comforts me these last few days, sitting next to me in a circle of thirty people in loose clothing. Gold and orange in his brown skin. No, this isn’t his first rodeo, he is a seasoned retreat participant, and he loves music, he’s a producer or something, the way he drums on his thighs, mentioned something about ‘working with a band.’ Today is movement meditation, so we all dance. Hand drums under Hindustrani melodies. He’s dancing like he’s alone in his bedroom, brazen, shameless, soul-full, through us like a curling wind, everywhere and nowhere, and as I watch him move around, his eyes open from his heart, I see how reserved I am, how my muscles constrict into familiar patterns, closed movements I’d done so many times before, dancing like I’m in some club waiting for my song to come on, and it’s a struggle, a pulling of hard taffy, to leave my prison of habit and safe, paved roads. I’m bound to ‘looking right,’ bound by hundreds of thin webs strong as twine. A specific yet gauzy memory of being lifted by classical violins on the radio, and my older cousin laughing at little me when I ‘ballerina danced’ in the living room, a memory branded into flesh, a virus dormant in bone marrow. I want to pull my arm free and break the webs. I force my hand to shoot towards sky, resulting in a jerky movement that doesn’t ‘look right’ but feels good. There we go! See how my long fingers curve, so delicate as they reach for the high ceiling, I could jump and still be a few feet away, this building born with my height in mind, as if it long ago knew I would need space. Formulated itself for me for this moment. Through the window, just outside, a pine tree, maybe three feet away from the glass, bursting through a hole in the porch. A compassionate circle in the wooden planks, just large enough for the trunk, allowing it to soar for the sun with its sharp fingers.