A committed athlete. At least, that’s what my watch tells me, after jogging running a consistent pace. 4.5 miles in 45 minutes has splendid symmetry.
An artist. Scribbling to actually say something. Not just another list. No longer restless. Able to resist pressures. Where stressors are fuel – not just quiet anger – to rule, for a moment.
An independent. Of thought, word, and deed. I am a librarian; I know what I read. And sometimes what I need? Is critical. (Ridiculously, it’s election day for primaries, and you know what that means – more binaries.)
A dancer, again. I’m scared to admit that to be my own friend, I must let go of perfectionism. Instead, I need to start over, not where I ended (18, jazz soloist, lyrical and modern teammate). But where I began (3, childlike, tumbling, and stumbling).
Exactly where I am. On the streets, sidewalks, screens, and studios. In process and in progress.