“Dance, when you’re broken open.”
~Rumi

I have been broken open more often than most people, yet I have not learned to dance! Come to think of it, though, I dance in words, don’t I? And not in spoken words but in written ones.

Writing is a form of soul dance for me, has been since I was in third grade. I would go to the school bookstore and get me a notebook. In it I wrote poems I composed. You see, I won Third Place Honorable Mention in the newspaper’s poetry competition. Being eight years old, I envisioned that mention as meaning I was very good at poetry!

I was also a talented acrobat dancer and even wore point shoes that I stuffed with lamb’s wool to keep from getting blisters. I was carefree until the age of twelve when I had an attack of agoraphobia. I didn’t know the name for it, then; I just knew I was terrified for no good reason.

I can still be terrified at this advanced age.

Lately I write daily about anything that strikes my fancy. Usually it’s something about how hard it is to keep our balance in this world. And it is almost impossible.

So I look back on my childhood and how I wrote poetry just for my own enjoyment. I majored in English in college and writing has always been easy for me. Math not so much. I married a man who got his Electrical Engineering degree from Georgia Tech. I couldn’t use a yard stick and he couldn’t write a poem.

After our kids were born, I tried my hand at humor, as most of you know. My father loved any kind of comedy and I took after him in that respect.

As a housewife, my perfectionism made me a meticulous housekeeper, but I was always a mediocre cook and decorator.

Our daughter died on a hot July day when she had barely turned seven years old. My husband and son and I saw parts of ourselves die with her, but we would seldom talk about it. Too painful, much too painful.

Now my son and I live together and every day has its share of grumbling. I forgot to activate my debit card; he doesn’t turn his TV down low enough.

Deep down we know that for some of us, life does not bring security but chaos. That is why I keep a tidy house; my emotions can erupt at any moment, spilling ashes all over the floor.

I never show my scars to people except when I write, so let’s keep this to ourselves, shall we? I am going to clear the floor of my keyboard and dance this essay all the way to Facebook. Anybody up for a spin?

Vicki Woodyard