Her dance. My song. Our time.

I heard of a woman whose moment of overwhelm in a supermarket choosing yoghurt, became a metaphor of an unlived life in which she didn’t know herself at all and couldn’t go on in a job she despised, that made her feel sick.

I learnt of a woman, who decided she would dance at her 60th birthday in the most loving celebration of her body in its softness and imperfection after releasing a long career as a professional dancer, endlessly and impossibly striving for a perfect dancer’s form.

I read of so many women struggling with permission to create their moments, their lives, wondering painfully if they were in fact good enough to expand. What If they they could finally release old patterns, old programs, the dead weight of guilt and fear? They would surely rise to dip long fingers into the Earth’s core, drawing up its shimmering liquid life force, and then summon golden light from around and above, from the beginning of time, to anoint their presence, not prepared to waste another minute wondering if they could, or should. These women would leap longingly into the burning brightness of themselves, because not taking the leap would be too painful.

I understood why I sang at my 50th birthday. Because it was too painful not to. To stay crouched. I yearned to take up the full length of space in which I exist after too much time mute. Stilted. Off course. I opened a gift and chose to luxuriate in me and continue to open the gifts of greater living in this world that still remain and ache to be received. I know I have generations of women built inside me, who will me towards the conscious, courageous me, who keeps unfurling. In my dreams I’m singing my song, you’re dancing your dance and we’re in full celebration. It’s time.

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