When I was little I built forts. I tied sheets to the bedposts and safely secured them on the other side of the room with a dictionary on my rocking chair. My favorite blankie and pillows cozied up the place. And a big jug of water sat right in the center; sometimes food, but always a jug of water. You never know when a girl might get thirsty. I could hear my mom's voice in the distance as I tucked my dolly in. I felt really safe in my forts. It was my world within my world. Even now, when I am lying on my back in a fort built by my children, the sheet touches my nose, and I still feel that same safety. I can reach out and grab an apple, a sweatshirt or a sip from a jug of water. My kids are prepared in their forts. They don't mess around when furnishing their forts.

Why do I feel safe in this beautifully crafted home within my home, I wonder? It's comes down to this. I like containers. I need containers. I am like leftover soup in Tupperware. Hold me in. Give me some walls to push up against to help me know I am here. Fence me in so I can go deeper, really get to know a place. I value the containers of my life. My marriage, my dance, my body, my studio, the Earth herself. Give me a good solid container and I feel safe to roam. Roam as far as my heart desires, right into the beautiful, messy Chaos of things. Sometimes it is the hand of my husband, the storytelling of my family or my dancing bones. It is often the stillness that holds my static. And sometimes, in fact many times, it is a solid bedpost, a heavy dictionary and the sheet that holds them together.

 

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