Tonight I danced again.
For the first time in over seven months, I let go of my inhibition and became undignified. It was anything but pretty. But it was very good.
Those of you who know me well or barely at all know that the love of my life, my Abuela, went home this past March. I claimed to handle it better than I did. There was still an underlying joy in my life because I was still one with the Spirit, but the pain of loss became difficult to bear.
I returned to the Springs. I started to drink. I put myself in compromising situations with people who I shouldn't have, and I woke up one noon and stared up at my ceiling.
What am I doing here?
I had let my pain make me its bitch, and while there were no consequences for my actions because my Lord is good and loves to protect me, I knew in my heart that if I didn't stop, there would be, and they would be difficult to bounce back from, even for a badass like me.
I sobered up. I started a few new jobs. I started walking in the favor that Yahweh has placed upon my life and all of my problems drifted away.
But I still refused to dance.
Dancing was her thing, our thing, an action of celebration and ecstasy, which I didn't feel. I was still grieving. I still am grieving. And the longer waited to dance, the more significant it had to be.
It has to be perfect. It has to be perfect for her.
And then tonight I attended my first WorshipMob and heard very clearly that unmistakable still, small voice.
And so I did and so I wept for I knew in my spirit that she was right there.
Dancing along like we always used to do together.
I still miss her and I always will. Nothing can ever or should ever replace her in my life. But when I tattooed a pair of sunflowers on my shoulder - a tiny one for me and a complete one for her - it was very important that while the two of them should be close to each other, they should not touch.
For I am my own person, my own strong and radiant person, even without her here.
I love you.
I thank you for standing beside me even when I choose to be a prodigal.
Listen to the still, small voice, Beloved.
It's time to dance again.