Sunday, March 23, 2025. 19*
Almost tripped over Ruger regaining my balance after watching the stars like glitter on velvet performing in silence, the Prelude for Sunday.
As she sings a little off key, more like keening, with Soleil watching, Mariah leads the trees in a peculiar dance of flailing limbs, bowing and scraping; a scene from the Wind Ballet she’s forever composing.
Two compose an impromptu dance of graceful steps runs and jumps flinging themselves into the air, with caution watching each other not like lovers, a Great Dane ballet.
All is a dance if we can see it, one motion leading into another, one breath followed by another, the mop back and forth across the floor, the broom, the vacuum; the duster that wears a tutu, albeit a little bit soiled. Water falling from a faucet, coffee poured into a cup, a ball thrown for a pup. Sometimes the dance steps are too fast we can’t keep up, sometimes slow and soothing. We may find ourselves dancing solo. We don't need special shoes (or any shoes) to dance.
Let them praise His name with dancing;
With tambourine and lyre let them sing praises to Him.
Psalm 149:3 LSB
Art: LJ Austin
