As a human, you thrive on free movement. As a sensitive being, you also thrive on positive response to stimuli.
Imagine the first bite into ripe fruit. Juice drips down your chin. You laugh. You use your hand to wipe your face. You lick your hand. You lean forward and bite again, let the drips run down your chin and onto the hot pavement.
You’re sensual. Don’t fight it.
You chew the ripe fruit and swallow the sweetness. You loosen. Your neighbour’s on the porch with the radio tuned to perfection. The singer’s voice rasps in time to a beat that makes your hips move without your consent. You follow. Shake the juice off the tips of your fingers. Smile at your neighbour. Get your shoulders into the act. Sway with intent. As they move, your bare feet meet the cool wetness of the dripped juice.
Sensuality is messy. Sticky. Perfectly normal.
Sensitivity that gets teased at work has a twin called sensuality. If you’re sensitive, you’ve got the equipment for more pleasure than normal. More joy from the juice. More heat from the sun. More depth from the symphony. More shiver from the look. So move. More.
Find the positive side of more. Then lose yourself.
{ PEP TALKS deliver a bracing blast of Grace }
Flickr photo: baile de salon, by habaneros
Related reading: Pep Talk | Wing It, How to Mingle at a Party
7 Comments
What a terrific set of images that bring me right into the moment! And not only into it, but accepting it and longing for it. Thank you Grace.
Yes, to echo Pearl, great set of images. Thanks!
“More joy from the juice.” Absolutely! That’s us – we can – and do!
As my first guru, Auntie Mame, said: “Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death.”
Must be springtime!
This is the best Pep Talk. Ever. Go ‘head, Lady Grace, with that wild spring in your step. I just l♥ve it!
This juicy, brilliant post — titled “Dance” — makes me want to share a poem I wrote that I think relates nicely: “The Glorious Secret of Bossa Nova”
Portuguese peppered bland silence.
Violins oiled the day’s rusted edges.
Flutes launched iridescent butterflies that swirled overhead.
Congas beckoned. Strongly.
The congas beckoned strongly.
In grateful response, my body opened and curled.
Shook and spun.
Gave itself up in samba. Rejoiced!
And a little Bossa Nova Fairy whispered
in my ear the secret of their magic. She said:
“You see, they all came together,
and convened in a forest of themselves:
strings, woods, winds, bells and passion-fire.
They touched one another with syncopation.
Pushed and pulled each other with staccato.
Teased the best out of each other with races and rests.
They made robust love, in this forest of themselves,
until each had given and played their best for you.”
Crescendo.
Smile on the inhale.
Collapse.
Smile on the exhale.
♥
Erika! That’s joyously, bountifully beautiful. Thank you so much for cluing us in to your talents of poeticism, rhythm, and all the rest. I love it.
I remember times in my life when I was convinced that, “Sorry, no. I don’t dance.” They were pale. And, likewise, I remember the times when I tossed that all aside and was won over by the moment and the music and the movement (the song “Brick House” springs vividly and collegiately to mind all of a sudden).
Apparently, dance is not only a great way to connect with the pulse of life – it’s a great metaphor for saying Yes.
Wow–mesmerizing, powerful, and immensely inspiring!
Thanks with heartfelt gratitude.
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