I woke up this morning with an incredible urge to dance. I was wondering when that desire would resurface. I think I’ve been suppressing the need for movement expression knowing that, to dance here on this private resort island in Turks & Caicos, is to dance alone. And what I miss, besides movement itself, is
I’d already lived on this picturesque, private hotel resort island for a whole month before even dipping my body into ocean. Crazy, I know! I even taught Pilates classes on the beach every Friday, instructing guests to roll up through their spines, gaze across the ocean and absorb the sea breeze before rolling back to the grounding support of the sand.
I’m a New Yorker. I thrive on the frenetic pulse created by its 8million inhabitants driven by our individual stories of ambition, hope and success as much as our apathy, desperation and failure. We get things done quickly, purposefully and with an exclamation point. We don’t pause. We don’t take deep breaths. We just keep moving.
The pop of a champagne cork in the quiet of a secluded beach. A toast to another year of love as the sun traces a brilliant path along the still, aquamarine water and tucks itself behind the clouds. The gentle caress of the heat at dusk as the powdery cool sand embraces our feet. A celebratory kiss.
