Thursday, June 28, 2012

Letters to my daughter/001

I know I'm still young, writing to you as though I've seen it all, but right now some of my favorite memories are dancing in my tiny room in Central Square to Sara Bareilles, sweaty and out of breath with my roommates. Nights when it was too hot to stay inside, Crysty and I venturing out for popsicles and some semblance of a breeze. Sure, I spent my share of nights dancing at clubs and bars, chatting up men I would regret wasting my breath on in a month's time, but those memories are fuzzy and blended together. What is clear to me are the faces of my best friends, laughing and navigating out of the crowd of impending males and into our own corner for solo dance adventures and eyes-closed-ears-wide-open dancing. I hope you love to dance, to feel a rhythm somewhere you cannot pinpoint, something so primal and natural you don't realize it's happening until you're out of breath and unsure of the hour. I hope, also, that you share that feeling and that love with other women around whom you don't even consider concepts like inhibition or insecurity, but only sound, movement, and acceptance.