I just danced for an hour. And I got my mojo back. And my ears went, “click!” Back into alignment. Not necessarily to where they were before the auditory injury, but definitely a world away from where they were after the recent tree-cutting incident.
Dance is kind of like happiness. When I struggled with depression in my teens, I didn’t want to do things that would make me happy, because I was depressed. And in my depressed state, I had no energy, inclination, motivation, whatever, to get myself happy.
Similarly, I find that when I’m struggling with a lot of pain — i.e., exactly when I need to be dancing — I don’t dance. Because I’m in pain. But the thing is, and it’s happened over and over and over again, if I just start taking those dance steps, the dance itself transforms me.
But it’s hard to remember when I’m in that state of distress or suffering, because that state is like a suction cup or vortex, pulling my life force down into its pit. So if you witnessed me all fucked up, whether in person or in cyberspace, please remind me of this one little thing: