In Dance Class
In dance, they taught us to relax our hands.
Even when every other muscle and limb in my body was tight.
Holding a pose.
Completing a step.
Trying to get it right.
The goal was to make it look effortless.
And relaxed hands communicated that to the audience.
So when I caught myself recently curled over in pelvic pain, as I often do during some of my toughest autoimmune flares, I noticed something.
My hands were relaxed.
All the other muscles and limbs were taking the beating.
Bracing for the pounding internal impact.
But not my hands.
They remained open.
Stretching, even.
Reaching for safer spaces around me.
