Learning to Move Without Leaving

How He Danced

He never taught it like a lesson.
No counting.
No mirrors.

Just—
throw in a leg,
then an arm,
let the rest follow
when it’s ready.

He said girls love to dance,
but what he meant was
life does too.

Don’t stand at the edge
waiting to be perfect.
Step in crooked.
Laugh if you miss the beat.

He moved like that—
easy, unafraid,
as if joy was something
you could always borrow
and never run out of.

If there is another room now,
another song starting up,
I hope he’s already smiling,
shaking a leaf,
showing someone new
that the best way forward
has always been
to move.

Learning to Move

Some people teach us how to stand still.
Others teach us how to keep moving—without abandoning what matters.

I’ve been thinking a lot about motion lately.
Not the kind that rushes. Not the kind that wins.
But the kind that carries memory without dragging it.

In the forest, everything moves.
Leaves fall. Branches bend. Roots hold.
Nothing stays frozen, and nothing truly disappears.

I’m learning—again—that moving forward doesn’t require hard edges.
It doesn’t require certainty.
It doesn’t even require answers.

It only asks for listening.

There’s a way of walking through life that doesn’t trample what came before.
A way of continuing without erasing.
A way of honoring without clinging.

Some people know this instinctively.
They move through seasons with grace, leaving space behind them—
space for others to breathe, to grow, to find their own footing.

I’m trying to remember that way.

Not to rush past grief.
Not to fight the current.
But to step when the ground is ready, and pause when it isn’t.

If there’s anything I’m relearning, it’s this:
Forward doesn’t mean away.

It just means alive.