Come now; what masques, what dances shall we have,
To wear away this long age of three hours
Between our after-supper and bed-time?
Where is our usual manager of mirth?
What revels are in hand? Is there no play,
To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?
A Midsummer-Night’s Dream (Act V, Scene I)
I move from child to child, airport to airport, colleague to colleague, client to client, shuffling from day to day, city to city, truth to truth. At each turn of the dance, opening myself up to the next step, the next new reality, to each new sense and new truth.
Oh - what it is - to turn on a dime? To be the Fred Astaire of the mood moment. To be pulled along by its graceful call. To dance the joy out of every sacred moment. To adapt to any environment, any persuasion, any person, at any time, without the stiffing ego tripping me, hurling my concious efforts to the floor. To be at the mercy of the moment. Allow others to spill their mind, then give them permission to be just that little more.
Step in and out of each moment, tip gently betwen tragedy and joy, happiness and sadness, right and wrong, good and ill, today and tomorrow.
A single word, question, glance or nudge can change everything.
Every morning our stage is bare. Waiting to be filled with a new dance. Moments to be unpacked, surfaced, enjoyed for what they are and what we will be.
The struggle with certainty is in itself the problem. The idea that stuggling is necessary is a wild distraction. It keeps us from being present, slowing down long enough to see what is really already here at our feet.
Clear the floor, let your self go, dance the only dance you know and let the dances you could never have imagined surprise you. Let go of struggle. There are no steps, only the fow of one moments movement into the next. Dance openly, acceptingly, unafraid. Dance until each moment opens up and teaches its truth. Dance being perfectly still in quietude. Dance sitting with uncertainty. Dance listening without prejudice. Dance freely without the burden of knowing or presuming.
"How far your eyes may pierce I cannot tell; Striving to better, oft we mar what's well"
King Lear (Act I, Scene IV)