Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don’t patch the cup.
Don’t patch anything. Don’t mend. Buy safety pins.
Don’t even sew on a button.
When my children were young, out chasing rose petals flitting about our lawn in early July, chasing dandelions even earlier in May, chasing lightening bugs during hot late summer nights, all the while tramping through the smallest of neighborhoods, but one that included a covered bridge and swimming hole beneath it, enough woods to spy a fairy, and a few kids to trade baseball cards with, I wondered, what would become of these little people? Would they love to dance as much as I do? Would they find beats that drove them to the clubs like I did when I heard Black Box or Madonna or other late 80’s dance sounds? Now, as they have grown into young adults, with passions and degrees, with loves and jobs, I am thrilled they have found joy on the dance floor. Little makes me as happy as sharing that space with them…staying alive and living life!
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Are you moved to dance every time you hear a rhythmic beat? And once you’re dancing, your mood lifts, possibilities expand, life just gets a whole lot sweeter? Well then… why not plot a dance party? Every musical genre creates a different mood, but the dance party I’m suggesting is a butt-shaking hip-hopping dance-ball-spinning kind of dance party.
Nine Cent Girl 