Turtles, turtles, turtles, all the way down.

Layers and turtles, onions and mythology, on and on, endless, infinite. Nothing is static; there is no moment of arrival. All process, all process. Coming into the light, or sinking into darkness;  the ground feeling stable and then unseen ice under the snow brings a bone crackling fall.

Do you remember the old movie, Cocoon? The aliens, who look like we do, peel off their corporal disguises and dash around as pure brilliant forces of light. That is how I see myself on the dance floor. An exaggeration, I know, but this is the image that flits through my head. While I am using this body, I have shed it and sense myself as pure light, translated into pure joy.

How does this jive with “person living with chronic pain” as well as “woman mourning a terrible ending of a five year relationship?” I carry these, of course, but I am more than that, way more. If I were not managing the pain daily, I would not have the stamina to get to the dances. The anger of being ruthlessly dumped sits in this knot somewhere, my belly or my heart, slowly melting down in size, ever-present but not being attended to.

If you ask me about my days, I am not shy to describe my life with chronic pain and its management. However, when I am dancing, when I am in my light-filled self, it feels like something of a secret. How can this woman with enough wattage to light the Grange and beyond have physical disabilities? Oh, but I do. I own both these lives, and many more.

Five surgeries are in my history. Each one requiring long periods of healing, each time not knowing how far the healing will take me, if I will walk again with ease, if, if, if I will dance ever again. My body is pretty cooperative these days.  My knee works remarkably well, with proper attention to limitations, no pain at all when dancing. Thank god. Unbelievable to me, dancing without even noticing my knee. I do NOT take this for granted. This is part of the joy you see shining through me. My knee works! But my back, my scapula, what appears as a shoulder injury, that draws my attention all the time. I wake, sandwiched between my cats, and feel fine, feel happy to greet each day. This, too, I do not take lightly, the gift of another day. As I start my day, pain meds with my breakfast, something between an ache and a pain starts to speak up. Enter “pain management.”  I manage my days carefully, scheduling my time to allow for rest, for quiet, for eating every three hours to accommodate taking pain meds. I manage my days so that there aren’t too many activities, no two things in a row. If I have a client, it is only for an hour or two, and then I need to regroup, not head off to something else. Balancing stillness with activity. Sitting here at the computer can be brutal, this kind of stillness is painful. Stillness lying on the couch with one or both cats on me or leaning on me, that offers relief. Gentle yoga classes offer relief, unless I am not careful enough with my modifications and bear weight on my right arm too much, too heavily. The motion of nearly daily hour walks, talking animatedly with a friend, offers delight, connection, and nearly total pain relief.

All this careful balancing, often with periods that the pain feels too much, can’t get it down to manageable, can’t allow for the rest or the movement that will bring relief, all this is preparation for the Big Joy.

A woman said to me that while she is always joyful on the dance floor, she loves to come across me in the line. MY joy is so huge, so obvious, so brilliant, that it inspires her to find even higher levels of her own delight. Yup. That’s me. I have been dancing, off and on, for 40 years. This is my home, my community. This is where physical movement merges with music, all these happy people swirling around me, touching me, holding me, with hands and eyes, this is where I can experience transcendence. This is where the trained dancer is me finds purchase. When the magic happens, when the music and the dancers and my mood and the phase of the moon all come together just so, I shed my corporal layers and shine.  The endorphin rush is more powerful than any pain meds. I may hurt the next day, but not while dancing, not if I honor my limitations (please don’t raise my right arm over my head; left one is fine, spin me under 3 or 4 times if the music allows). I know we all come to the dances to leave behind our daytime selves, our other lives. I leave behind my carefully managed days. I count off the days between dances.  I plan my week around dancing. I ache to get to the next dance. Literally. My daytime pains will dissolve. I own this life of pain management but fuck it, I am going to dance. I am going to shed those layers of the onion, I am stepping off the turtles, I am finding more and endless layers to release. Joy is infinite. My joy is infinite. It is all process. There is no end moment of “this is my greatest joy.” Give me more. More joy. I am ready. I am open.