Your heart doesn't need protection, despite what your uptight brain tells you. Your heart is a rebel, man. She's a radical. She's a hip-swaying, drum-circle, barefoot soul-dancer, and she needs to breathe. She needs to feel the heat of the sun, the sting of salt, the chill of rain. So what if she ends up a bit burned? So what if a cough lingers, the skin a bit raw? That's living, baby. That's experience--and there ain't nothing a heart craves more than experience--discomfort, joy, pain, illness, and the irrefutable, extraordinary strength that comes with recovery, with healing.
So let her breathe. Let her move. Let her embarrass your puritanical brain with how much skin she's showing these days. She didn't invent these constructs; she has no time for conventional thinking. This is music. This is moonlight, muddy toes, bonfires, cave painting, primal chants, and deep vibration.
This is the only beat that matters.