March 24, 2012
There is a kind of magnificence in being human on days like today.
When you are so perfectly fluid of movement, and the well-oiled gears of your machine spin simply because you ask them to.
It is zen.
When your body moves the way it was intended. When you find the light of being, warm against your calves, your feet, your face.
When you fly the way a hunter should, a hunter in a time when they were regarded as life givers, when their skill and nature stood unchallenged at the head of the pack.
It is magic.
When your feet find their rhythm, their form, their elegant touch and go, up and down, forward, forward, faster.
Strength and weakness lean upon the back of the other,
creating an unshakable élan de vie.
Your unbroken machine, your cylinders, pistons, rods slice through gravity such that your hair is loosed from its band and trails your fire like wisps of smoke.
The rain begins for you alone.
Drops of water mixed with sweat.
A liquid shine.
The perfect song, the perfect movement, a sleight of nature pulling you forward.
There is no brilliant crud in the toes of gods.
There is no joy or laughter at their own foolishness.
There is no holding hands with their imperfections, celebrations of fragility, bowing to the grace and the filth of their Mother Earth.
I'd much rather let the gods be gods,
and keep the crud in my mortal toes,
laugh out loud at my foolishness and verve,
dance with my imperfections,
and roll into grace and filth in my lace and leather Sunday best.
Let the gods be boring gods.
I'd rather be human.