When I was a child, I would turn on the radio, shut the door, and dance around my room. Exuberant, I’d leap around and sing, fully existing in that moment, free from the do’s and don’ts that restrict every child. Though I knew, inevitably, I couldn’t while away my existence dancing around my room forever.
I recently re-created the experience as an adult – young enough to dance around the living room, old enough not to mind. In the words of singer songwriter Julie Moffitt, “I start to feel more alive.” The daunting seems possible, and the day-to-day sticking points rescind to insignificance until they seem to have never existed. It’s a moment of transition from doubt to certainty, of perceived stagnation to knowing the past was an inevitable ingredient of the future. And as I hold my hands above my head and twirl around, the cats watching with heads tilted, and my husband not yet willing to give in to inhibition, I want the moment to last. I want to take it to the office on Monday. I want to slip it into my pocket and squeeze it when no one is looking as a reminder of the kernel that is myself. But I never do. By Monday morning I’ve misplaced it. It’s become too small and I can’t find it at the back of the drawer with my wallet, my keys, and the book I’ll read on the train. I’m in a rush – I don’t have time to look. I have to leave without it.
So when the song which feels like it should be the last ends, I feel the relief that comes with expression of honesty and self, and a sadness of knowing I felt infinite only for that moment.