Won't You Come Dance With Me?

So sing the Commodores and so I listen. Listen to the upbeat tunes that I so miss after a full afternoon of organizing, of tossing things aside, recatagorizing, wondering if I can ever I can find the emptiness I search for, I long for, as I keep keep keep so much. But I am trying. Forever trying. I think of my son Kennedy and his Elmo Potty Time DVD. There is a song that I myself remember from the 1980s watching Sesame Street. Trying trying again, the tune goes. It is part of the video to show children clips of children learning how to do things, how to have their own rites of passage. So too, I continue to try to create my universe of mindfulness, of writing, of creating, or letting go. The dance of being alone, of neither being in denial that the song has actually ended or of dancing in a sad, alone, mourning state. Here I find myself. On the brink. On the cusp. But sometimes feeling so deep in the weeds. Maybe I am perched on the top of a cattail in the weeds of a beautiful swamp with the sun shining down. One things feels certain: I am beginning to see the light and gain perspective from my perching point.