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Dance as Coping Mechanism

Hello, Loves.

How does this evening find you after a very rough week. The fires, the power outages, the smoky air. . . . . .the worry, the anxiety, the stress. . . . it all takes a toll. How are we coping? How are we resourcing? I’m feeling up and down lately. Yesterday was a whirlwind day of happiness and magic and miracles. Today was a struggle day of darkness and agitation and weariness. I’m trying to just go with it and accept what is, but I’m curious about this coping concept and how we cultivate it (bless alliteration, for one thing. . .heh heh). Today, I took comfort in a good book, spending the better part of the day immersed in story. Tomorrow, I’ll take comfort in dance and community, for dancing is both my coping mechanism and my resourcing activity. Dancing soothes me and nourishes me. It’s the movement. It’s the music. It’s the dancers. It’s the freedom. It’s the connection. It’s the authenticity. Perhaps I’m repeating myself here ( 😊 ), but it’s true. I hope you allow yourself to dance, if that’s your coping mechanism. May you know your coping mechanism. May you take time to do it. And if you know where the rarest wildflowers are blooming, may you go there. It’s important to go to the wildflowers (see poem below by Wendell Berry).


Here's some good news: our beloved Davida will be sharing her magic with us tomorrow.


Miracles

Walt Whitman1819-1892

Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?


I’m thrilled to share this poem with you because it took me hours to locate it. I could only remember the image, the partial line, about knowing where the wildflowers bloom. . . and going there. . .it’s so important to go to where you know the magic is.


Sabbaths 1999:II

By Wendell Berry

I dream of a quiet man

Who explains nothing and defends

Nothing, but only knows

Where the rarest wildflowers

Are blooming, and who goes,

And finds that he is smiling

Not by his own will.


May you find miracles in the most mundane moments of life. May you find yourself smiling, not by your own will. 😊

See you on the dance floor, Glory Beans.

(note: it’s a mood enhancer for me to write to you. . . .thank you for being out there in the world, doing your beautiful dance!)

Much love,

KB

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