The Body That Remembers

I'm dancing in my living room this morning, barefoot on the hardwood floor, and the music is something slow and deep, all bass and rhythm, something I can feel in my chest.

My hips move first. Then my shoulders. Then my arms lift and flow down, reaching and swaying.

I'm not thinking about the steps. I'm not performing for anyone, not even for myself.

I'm just moving.

The sunlight comes through the window in warm, long golden bars, and I move through them, in and out of shadow, in and out of light.

My body knows this. It knows how to move without my mind directing it. It knows how to find the rhythm, how to follow the pull, how to let go, and be joyful.

I used to doubt this.

I used to think my body was something I had to control, something I had to manage and monitor and keep in line.

But dancing here now, I realize: my body has always known.

It knew when to rest. It knew when to move. It knew when to pull back and when to lean in.

I just wasn't listening.

The song shifts, and I shift with it, slower now, softer, my arms wrapping around myself, my head tilting back.

The floor solid beneath my feet. The music vibrating through my ribs.

I'm here. Fully, completely here.

Not because I solved anything or figured anything out.

But because I stopped doubting what my body already knew.

The song ends, and I stand still, breathing hard from the movement, my skin warm and alive. I feel invigorated y something so simple, so easy.

My heart pounds steady in my chest.