Wednesday, September 17, 2014
(I asked her mother, too, don't worry.)
She said, "Picture?" and then began to dance to whatever music was inside her head. Her arms out then close, her little shoes turning, her hair twirling, her red sweater further brightening the sky. She was ebullience and red pepper, a spice of something fine at the end of an unusually fine day.
Yesterday, working through a giant client puzzle and a rapid-fire succession of disappointments, I thought of this child dancing. I stood when I could take it no more. Set out on a walk. Called my father, said hello to neighbors, made my way to Whole Foods, where I conceived of a modest culinary plan.
We are in charge, I remembered again, of our own moods. We must dance until we can't.