As kind of a given rule, I don't really like to dance, not in the generally accepted definition of the term, anyway. But I do love the idea of dance, as a concept--this free-form (at least, at first), movement to some kind of rhythm, heard or unheard. It's movement dependant on the circumstances of the moment--you can't jump ahead or fall behind without taking away from the art; it's all about the present.
Holding that definition, then, life is a dance--your schedule is the beat to which you move and, in between, fall the rests--your moments of free-form quiet. I was thinking of this yesterday as, in the midst of a crazy schedule, in which over the next two weeks I'll probably be pulling (my version of) all-nighters, finishing one long-loved and long-lived project, just to switch intellectual gears altogether and begin another one (for which, yes, at this moment I'm woefully ill-prepared), I spent the day with my sister. And it was just the best thing ever.
Without the rest, there can be no dance. Without the rest, there would only be frantic movement and, no matter how graceful, it would become insanity--both to watch and to participate in. So, yesterday morning, when I wondered yet again if I'd have enough time to complete anything, much less everything, I realized it didn't matter. There was no music at the moment, so even if I had wanted to dance, I couldn't.
This was a moment of rest, and it was unspeakably lovely.