Rhythmic Discourse

My body was moving. My lips were closed, but I was talking. There were points when I knew I was talking to God and there were other moments when I knew I was only talking to myself. I was dancing. I was using my body as an instrument to express what I did and didn’t understand.

The room was dark. The only light there came from a candle and the light that shines within my belly. The music bumped. A woman’s voice sang. African drum beats mixed with a funky guitar. I just danced.

I don’t know what exactly led me to the place and space but I was comfortable when I was there. The day began with two words that affected me all day: sad news. It made me think about a love. The night ended with two words that I promised myself I would never let affect me again: no answer. It made me think about another kind of love. I thought but could not and really don’t think I wanted to talk, not in the traditional since. I wanted to think and pray and converse and meditate and express what I was feeling.

And that I did, in the floor, with the music, with the lights, with myself and with my God.