Something like a call to return home summoned me out of my chair that was stowed safely in the outskirts of the circle; summoned me out of myself, out of my zone of comfort. Not on the outside of the circle, but into it. Spirit came out of body to lead body forward, guiding through. Spirited. Inspired. Animated. Invigorated. Emboldened. Aroused. Sparked. Stoked. Kindled.

Suddenly, I was in the centre—eyes closed to muffle the noise of people’s probing ones, in order to channel further in, to hear into the call itself. A call that quietly demanded attention, not grasping, but claiming, like a grand lady entering a great hall. Her presence speaks for her—the way she carries herself, her gestures and poise exuding grace and regality long before she even opens her mouth. This was such a call, one that would be foolish to ignore—an invitation. A call to expression.

There were drums in the circle, and they continued to beat, throbbing and pulsing with rhythm as the players skilfully drew out their music like fresh water from a well.

Not out of body, but with body, in body, I began to dance to the music. Body together with spirit hammered out a story, of pain, of heartache, of loss, of frailty, of strength, of tears turned to nourishing rain transformed to joy, beauty, depth and love. Ashes of sorrow turned to molten gold like a work of pure ancient alchemy. The force of emotion, bubbled up from my toes and was something requiring release. Force of movement.

⬼ ❀❀❀ ⤗

As motion is created, emotion is resolved. The inner state can be altered. There is something so sweet about movement and flow, beat and cadence to lull one out of her own misery and sorrow, first by letting the body acknowledge the pain that has been wrought, expressing it and then shifting into a state of creating. After a fall, comes a float to create something new, something unique that has been birthed out of grief. 

Grief is not key for this creation to take place, but it is a powerful tool, one that wields precise strokes, and sometimes exactly what is needed to bring about beauty. Oddly enough, it seems that loss is the cost of joy. Not always, but often. 

So there I was stamping with my feet, driving my legs into the ground like a miner’s axe into rock. Releasing the painful emotions inside of me that had overstayed their welcome, not so much to get rid of them, but to give them a voice. To let them be heard, beating them out to the rhythm and dancing alongside. 

By the end of it all, I felt sheer ecstasy, but only for having gone through the seasons of emotion and acknowledged every single one, thanking them with gratitude for their offering and blowing them gently on the backs of the beat of the drums.