Her Terms
Updated: Sep 21
She was leaning among other potential treasures in an outdoor salvage yard. The Devadasi. A bit lost. Too tired to stand unsupported and visibly beat up from her journey. I felt a kinship.
Before I left the yard, I captured a quick photo and began to ask her for her story. Our conversation took us to all the places, real and imaginary, that left her broken and seemingly abandoned.
Despite the tale, she wasn’t directing the conversation toward the broken pieces of herself left behind in the gardens where she had spent time. She wasn’t concerned about her faded and rubbed colors or how some had made poor attempts to revive them.
Timing was still in the pulse of her hips, and the clap from her frame drum was still matching the strike of her foot. In the salvage yard, the dance was only hers, and now the terms were hers.
Her eyes fixed and wide from a lifetime of watching. She is listening from the cracks, unbothered by a rushing storm and unfazed by swirling noise. Instead moving only when the ground beneath her shifts. Her now-smoothed joints naturally soften into movement when the air feels authentic to her melody.
She is cultivating her garden from the present, and with great intention. No longer randomly placed as ornament or in servitude, the dance belongs to her.
Today her dance feels ever more important.
