Dancing alone.

In lieu of my usual walking last night, I shoveled snow for an hour. The entire driveway. Including some big snowdrifts. Everytime I exercise I marvel at the therapeutic benefits. Motion. Motion. Motion. The human body was made to move. Often in a rhythmic way. A nice, slow easy rhythm last night. Everything synchronized. I'm really no good at dancing. Why, I don't fully know. But when I walk or run or shovel snow or rake leaves -- well, I guess that's my form of dance. I'm doing it myself. Without a partner. Maybe that's the difference. If I take to a dance floor, maybe I have a different sense of rhythm. I'm dragged out there by a partner. I have to dance alone. And in solitude. No audience. Kind of like the way I write. Alone. Even when I wrote for newspapers. In a horrible setting. In a newsroom. So many, many disturbances. But I had to learn to shut it all out. I had to imagine that I was in the middle of an enchanted forest. Alone. Then I could write. I think I would write best on a desert island. And maybe in that setting, I could also dance. Yes, dance the dance of life. --Jim Broede