The Dancer

My toes have dirt on them from May until the crisp snows of Yule force them into warm socks.

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Though called ugly and curved, my toes were perfect for dance.  Slid beautifully into ballet shoes and curved just so to hold me on my toes with ease.

My feet held me in sequences of intrinsic combinations and expressions of my own whimsy and creations.  They helped me teach.  They set me free.

Nerve damage in my big toe made relevé a searingly painful impossibility.  A bad ankle injury from Salsa dancing followed.  My knee.  My hip.  I closed my dance company.

My husband and I loved swing dancing but over time most of the dancing ceased.

toes

My toes have dirt on them because I walk through my gardens.  I wash them, and moments later end right back up in the dirt.  Back with the bees, and errant weeds, and upturned sunflowers, their faces to the sun as mine is.

My feet now hold me in intrinsic combinations (of kale and corn) and expressions of my own whimsy and creations (the wild tea garden).  They help me to teach.  They set me free.  This is my present place and time.

It is hard to let the past go.  I long to dance.  A crone elm in my gardens with wide spance and fences welcomes dancing around her girth.  On toes that carry me.  That set me free.

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But there are new journeys these feet will carry me through…

Let us dance this new dance of life.  In this present time.  Let us release the past.  Release the longing of different years.  Let us step out of the shadows and the shape shifting to match the world and become our true majestic divine selves and live the passions and life we so long for now.  To dance in gardens in the light, in the day.  And at night, under the moon.  Let us create our own enchanted gardens and dance.  Let us be set free.  Let us take a chance.

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