FingerDance
The art of the fingerprint . . .
I didn’t even know I was a she yet. Or an I.
My finger—what’s a finger?—felt something smooth. Please understand, I’m not sure what these words mean, but they enter me and have to go somewhere. Circling my touch around and around, it felt slick and soft.
From somewhere far away I heard a voice and felt a pounding.
Darkness surrounded me, even though I can’t define it. I knew—or instincted—that my finger was there in the dark even though I couldn’t see it. It swirled, making loops over my head and under my feet.
What is a head? I don’t know. What are feet? I don’t know. But I know they’re there, up and down.
The rhythm changed.
My fingers—now I knew there were more of them—spread out wide and painted circles on the dark, moist walls enclosing me.
I couldn’t help myself. Something—or someone—told me I must do it, over and over, each fingertip flat against that slippery surface.
I don’t know how long I continued this strange and wonderful art, but a moment came when I knew it was time to stop.
Much time passed. After the glistening dark walls dissolved and light became my room, I looked at my fingertips that once circled and painted those dark prison walls—and I knew.
It was my Creator who’d taught me that fingerdance. Round and round, arches, bridges, whorls, and loops being formed with each turn. The art of crafting my own one-of-a-kind fingerprints on the walls of my prison. But, not a prison.
A place of becoming. Becoming me. The only me on a planet of billions of other mes.
