To move is to breathe.

Today, I am missing dance. I don't just miss it in a passive kind of way. Rather, it is a gnawing, desperate, palpable, heart wrenching sort of feeling. My very muscles ache for it.

Before I was pregnant with Jonathan, I was dancing about 15 hours a week. Even through my pregnancy, I usually averaged at least 5. Then came Jonathan. It has been hit or miss ever since. With Isaac in tow, it seems to stretch even further away.

Now, this may not seem like a very big deal to most people, but to me, it feels like death. No, that is not an exaggeration. To a dancer, to move is to breathe. There is something in the full stretch of the muscle, the sharpness of one movement contrasted with the soft fluidity of the next, the hits, the pauses, the stillness that is so full of ripe, raw energy. It is a language that transcends beyond word, beyond sound, a communication so primal that it demands our attention. Simply put, movement is what separates the living from the dead.

Dance takes it a step further. It is the feeling behind the movement. It is intentional and purposed. Feeling and thought take on lives of their own. Even a leaf can dance upon the breath of wind.

So now what? This year, one of my goals is to begin to dance again. Even if it is just moments in my bedroom by myself, weeping along with whatever song happens to move my spirit. For me, it is the peak of intimacy with my creator and for far too long it has been neglected. So, with great intentionality, I will carve out time. Time, set aside, to move with purpose, to dance, to create, to worship.....to breathe.