Catharsis

Last night, after a domestic frustration (the cause of which I will tactfully leave vague), I laced up a pair of old jogging shoes in an angry huff, choosing (against prevailing instincts) not to slam the door as I left.

Striding North through overgrown grass (iPod and travel-size speakers in tow), I kept marching past the pond where I had intended to sit: too frustrated by the incongruity between my distress and its tranquil nature. So instead, I kept walking... until I reached the clearing in the pines.

I broke apart the tranquil dusk with (ironic) Nirvana.

I flung myself into the humid air, landing momentarily on fallen pine needles, then launching again (and again) until I began to feel calm.

In that liminal place (between life and art), I began to notice the remarkable height of my leaps... the grace of my landings... the fluid contortions of my spine... and the openness of my hips.

And with that awareness, the anger dissolved. The dance began.