I danced on my roof tonight. Yes , I actually did.
I live in a nine-story building. A lovely generous person plants that roof each summer with a beautiful potted garden – it’s a place I always think when I am there, “why don’t I come up here more often?”
This afternoon it rained hard – thunder and lightening, diminishing to a soft sprinkle that left the evening air cool and fresh, and perfect for reading on the rooftop. My book, The Artist’s Way, by Julia Cameron, was striking cords in my psyche left and right. The view – a gorgeous panorama of all of Washington, D.C., its trees and monuments and houses and churches. The air was clean and fresh. I was sore but relaxed from an earlier intensive dance workout.
Then it hit me. The urge. To dance. On the rooftop.
“No, I can’t, someone might see.”
“It’s dusk. And no one is looking all the way up here.”
“Someone looking out the window in the next building might see.”
“Then they’ll be entertained. For free.”
“No, I can’t. I should read.”
“OK, go ahead then. Read.”
I kept reading. But my legs and body protested and yearned to move in that cool, fresh air, over that wide expanse of open, rain-puddled space, among the pots hibiscus and lantana, way up high over the city, over George Bush and Dick Cheney, and high gas prices cellulite and everything else.
I danced. Flamenco, modern, jazz. It didn’t last long, but I did it. I’d get all poetic and tell you how fabulous it felt – wind in hair, open arms, blah, blah, blah – but we both know that would be crap. Well, it was kind of fabulous, actually, but also silly and a little embarrassing. And fun. And it really did feel good. If I had been five years old I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. So why would I now? Exactly. We should just dance if we freaking feel like it. Damn it.
I’m going to do it again. I’ll let you know how it goes.