something mythical happened today.
i was at a used bookstore, browsing the shelves in the mental health section, my hands caressing the names of the authors imprinted on the spines. satir. and perls. and lowen. and the voice of norah jones entered my consciousness. and the music seeped through my flesh. and... in the face of self-consciousness... and social propriety... my body rocked. rocked. rocked. at the mercy of nothing but the virgin drive of its own voice.
my inner critic tried to divert me from my flow. and my inner judge called me 'silly.' but my joy knew joy. and what can step in the way of that? what, i ask?
i did not allow those voices. there was no place for them. there was only room for movement. euphoria. and trance. there was only room for self inside a world of limitless dimensions. there was only room for body. and breath. and bones.
