Dancing . . .

Dancing a dance via my local dance studio that expresses the egg, the baby, the growth, the rebellion . . . leads me weekly to . . .
re-experience/reframe those days of my life.

I dance that phrase sometimes thinking lovingly of my birthmom (and even as I write this my insides shake because of the intensity of such thoughts), . . . loving her insides, loving her womb, loving her heartbeat her sounds her warmth.

I dance that phrase sometimes especially WANTING to feel the insides of her–to be more aware of those days . . . appreciating those days, especially since they are now gone. I lost them too soon, and I never wanted to lose them or her.

I dance that phrase sometimes with sadness and tears that she is gone.

I dance that phrase sometimes thinking of how scared she must have been/which means we both were–that instead of a warm loving womb relationship, that I was simultaneously just being me and causing her incredible stress.

I was just a baby.

I dance that phrase knowing that I was just being me, and my kicks and stretches probably caused her such anguish–loving me (I think) and loving having me in her tummy (????), and hating me (???) and hating the secret that she has to keep forever now and hating how it changed her relsationship with the man she loved and feeling such pain that she would no longer have me soon . . .

And dancing the “rebellious” phrase . . .

It fits. I skipped that phrase of my life, I think, until now. Now is when I want to kick and jump and pound. It’s not from a place of anti-anyone. I think I’m even closer now to saying that it’s not coming from a place of anti-God’s “best” for me. It just comes from a place of deep pain and loss . . . trying to come out of it, and sometimes just wanting to stay in it, and sometimes not able to come out of it–only able to find ways to escape.