She Dances
While kneeling at his feet near a small fire at the rear of the gardens of
Samsara, He asked if I was fearful or if I would savor a challenge. Thinking of
a night recently when his hand against my shoulder pressed me to my knees just
off the main road in the market, I smiled even as I felt my cheeks grow hotter
than my proximity to the fire would cause. "I am not fearful," I replied.
"Tell me a story," he commanded, "but use only your body. Tell me of your fears
and guilt in becoming appropriated."
I'd only danced one other time as a slave and that was long, long ago. The sand
beneath my feet was warm from the fire lit in the center of the circle. I knelt
there for a moment, thinking about when it all began with him, my body falling
naturally back into the former modest, thighs closed posture.
When he quietly spoke of early fears, I danced to the edge of the circle, moving
nearly into the darkness ... "but you can't stop" ... and I would feel myself
drawn back toward the heat of the fire, hips circling as if of their own accord.
I danced the guilt ... the confusion ... the growing burning inside ... the
recognition that with all that it means, I am his.
There are many many girls who dance in a more technically proficient way ...
knowing the right steps and movements of all the dances. They are beautiful.
I danced with awkward steps, but bared my heart and spirit to him. His reaction
at the end of the dance told me that I, too, was beautiful