Teshuvah

woman dancing in field with sunlight behind her

Teshuvah is a dance. Not a stately waltz
   with its designated leader,
    steps laid out carefully
    for dancers to progress
around the room.  

I do not fault sages who struggle earnestly
   in the intimacy of question,
debating the order
   of the dance,
seeking instructions with
   binding specifics.

But for me it is enough
   to have been invited to the dance. 

The One who invited me is already
there. We stretch out our hands and
begin the dance.
My heart beat becomes the rhythm of the clarinet,
my breath the flashing bow of the violin. 

Guilt and confession,
forgiveness and redemption
   dance a fiery polka. 
Feet stomping, heart racing,
spinning and turning and turning, breaking
   the bonds of earth.

I am forgiven because I dance.
I dance because I am forgiven.

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