Your shortcomings are not gaping holes on the canvas of things – awaiting rectification so that the serious task of painting might continue; they are the canvas of things, changing its face.
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They are brushstrokes, a genius of gesture and movement leaving embodied colours in their wake. Isn’t it enrapturing to realize that those moments when we thought our lives had stopped, and that we had to wait to get back on the train again, we were always moving – marking the ground, tracing lines in the sand, performing stillness with motion? There is no sacred performance awaiting us beyond a veil; this frantic preparation, this worrying about how well we will perform, this immobility…is the dance.
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