Dancing and Writing

Image by jeff medaugh via Flickr

Currently, I am experiencing a bit of a writing drought. Lacking the words to share the new with you, I decided to experiment with an old post. One of the early ones that probably no one read unless you found a link to it.  Add some editing and updating. See what happens. Because while I may not have anything fresh and new, Madeleine says a writer must practice - like a musician. This isn't quite what I was expecting.

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At USF, there are often chalk written messages on the sidewalk. Especially at voting time for the student government. Sometimes for student events. One fall semester, I noticed these words over and over again: WHY DO YOU DANCE?

I have no idea what these words are in reference to. Whether they are recruiting for the Dance Program or advertising a dance competition. Though I am not a dancer--by any stretch of the imagination (I got a black eye while learning a Scottish country dance)--the words went deep.  I saw those words and I had only one answer: I DANCE TO FEEL FREE.

I dance to feel the freedom that we have all been promised. The freedom to be myself. The freedom to dream and hope for more. The freedom to praise God through difficulty and pain. The freedom to tell Him my heart and how it hurts. I dance for my freedom, but I can hardly remember the last time I danced. To feel the music move me inside. Whether to flowing ribbons of classical music or the regular 1-2-3-4 beat of tango, or even that current music with the insistent beat that so many Christians turn from.

I miss it. The dancing. The feeling of freedom. In the discouraging monotony of each day, I would like anything to make me feel free and happy again. Right now, my life is full of work and rent and food. I wake up every morning. I go to work. I get frustrated and annoyed with people. Sometimes I want to cry and sometimes I want to tell everyone off. Then I go home. I watch DVDs, feed the cat, and make the same food over and over again. Occasionally, I spend money I know I shouldn't because I am so tired of living this way at the very edges of life. This is my rebellion when I am tired of doing everything "right" with no visible result. This is not freedom.

At the end of the day, I go to bed so I can get up and do the same thing all over again. It feels like such an empty life. It is not the freedom we have been promised. Everyday, I worry whether or not I'll have enough money to make it to the next payday. I wonder when the next disaster will hit and whether I'll be able to get through it. I know I will, because I've passed through so many. But I'm always waiting for something else to go wrong. This is not freedom.

The strange thing is that while dancing allows me freedom, I can not dance. Not in a way that might be considered art. I am clumsy and awkward especially if I notice how very clumsy and awkward I am. I usually do my dancing behind closed doors while singing songs to my favorite musicals. Dancing and singing are my expressions of freedom, but I write. I choose writer as the title over my heart. I choose words as the means by which I tell you who I am and what I believe. I cling to words like they are what brings me to life. When I was growing up words made more sense than music and dance. Words were comprehensible and alive. Words and books were everything that those cheesy library posters promised. Lately, words are stale and empty for me.

In the emptiness of my life, I am always looking for ways for the words to bring me to life again. I read my favorite authors. I blog once in a while (when Bonnie has a good Faith jam topic on Thursday), but, recently, I don't have much inspiration to write. I try reading the books everyone recommends. I get down on my knees to pray. I'm trying to see my life from afar. I am trying to see the whole story and what it all means. But I cannot get a clear picture.

Sometimes it isn't as easy as...I love music and playing the piano and singing, so I have to be a musician. Or, I feel the music move me in my soul so I must be a dancer. Sometimes its complicated. I like stories and books and writing. But what does that mean for me and my place in God's plan? I can't imagine writing anything that would be published or read. The things I try write are about me and learning more about myself and the person I'm meant to be. I am not so certain that I succeed in finding the words. So often my journey is one step forward and ten steps back.

Maybe that's why I am so afraid of going back to school. I am afraid of pushing too hard and breaking up the thin ice my life is braced on. I love books and stories and, for many years, I believed that that meant I had to be a literature professor and a writer. But maybe it doesn't. Or maybe it still does. I don't know. And not knowing is making me crazy. I'm looking for ways to feel alive, but they really aren't working. I start new things and move on to the next when they leave me just as empty as when I began.

Is it strange that I dance to feel free, but writing does not make me free? Writing seems to remind me how very imprisoned I am. Writing makes me feel limited. My words are just words. They have no power. They shed no light in the darkness. They are just words on the screen. In fact, if I had to describe my writing style, I wouldn't know where to begin. I don't even know what this blog is all about. I just start tapping away on the keyboard and I never know where its going. What kind of writing style is that?

So if I had to ask you, dear Readers, what Rista-ree's Mysteries is all about, what would you say? What made you start reading? What made you come back again?

I guess I'm feeling a bit ontological after re-reading A Circle of Quiet and wondering about my ousia.