Merci, Lily

Last year I was dancing my  way through a novel. It was a supine sort of dance. I reclined on my big green couch, laptop suspended above my body, hands moving slowly or rapidly over the keys. But, oh what a dance it was. The characters danced into being, and graciously pulled me with them. I was the young dancer, Lily – so strong, sure, and determined to dance her own dance, so horribly hurt by the detour that became her salvation, then triumphant and free as her true dance was realized and carried her all the way to Paris. Her delightful and faithful circle of friends were my friends, and their many adventures in that delicious environment were mine as well. Dreams came true for Lily and her friends. The world opened up like a flower and invited them in, and I was the fortunate one who accompanied them from my comfy old couch. What a rich and celebratory journey we made together! What a wondrous dance!

This morning I woke with Lily in my mind, and the moment I noticed her presence, she began to dance in my heart, so determined to be my reminderer of the day. As she danced, she called forth Paris, the vibrant atmosphere, the taste of croissants and cafe creme, the windy gestures of the chestnut trees, the feel of striding freely, attuned to interior music.  I lift my eyes to the beauty of Lily’s Paris, inhaling the truth:  Lily’s dance isn’t over. Nor is mine.


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