I’d forgotten that is what I was doing when I was 15. Dancing in the rain with Vladimir and Valery. There were so many storms back then, but we three, we stayed through them. Red storms, black storms, grey storms with lightning, white storms with dusty rainbows. Twisting and turning with the water, we were three. A beautiful, strong umbrella -- we created safety, with our bones and outstretched words on paper, three writers that sheltered the art of our less privileged from the ravages.
Now we find ourselves scattered across the globe, having to face these storms on our own. The storms are a different sort where I am. I suspect the change is much the same with Valery and Vladimir. These storms of mine are not so obvious but they last for days and weeks and months without me even able to turn my head up to the sky for fear of the wrath. The water has crept in through the cracks and wet the walls a bit, it hasn’t molded yet. My bones and words are big enough, yet they have been weakened. I haven’t managed to stop the storm completely on my own.
I have these new fangled tools to shelter me -- a warm house, a well-stocked purse, a job, and two cats. But I should be out there dancing in the rain. Dancing with my bones and words to the world… it is time I remembered who I really am. I am not my activities or my worries or the labels other people give me. I am a being of immense power and breathtaking beauty – the power to dance in the electric, with the grace to remember and honor those who came before me, protecting me and my art, while they were dancing in the rain.
