I dreamed about Oshun last night. She was beautiful and tall, her skin so dark it was almost a mirror and I wanted to cry. She felt like power and motherhood and all things delicious and wonderful. I wanted to fold myself into her arms and curl up there with my cheek on her breast then lay there until I died.
She shook her head at me, I am an errant child again and she asks where her rain bowl is. I blush and I have to tell her that I broke it by accident.
She laughs and I feel forgiven.
The next thing I remember we are looking at each other and she says, “you don’t look like a dancer.” I tell her I know but I could pray in other ways. Of course I could. She laughs again and I feel absurd until she says dance anyway.
And so I danced. I danced for pain and prayer, for my lie and death, for every tiny hurt that made me want to cry, for every time I hurt and do not cry. I danced the way I imagine my ancestors danced. I danced to welcome her and myself, I danced and danced and danced into the water and sun.
I woke up lonely and wanting to reach out to keep her. To hold her close to me so I wouldn’t fly away into tiny pieces of worried womanchild.
I put on my grown up bullet proof face and will go on about my day.
But in secret, inside I’m still dancing.
